With The Amaurotic
by Houghtons
Summary: I could have killed her then and there, and any time after. But I didn't. BrickxBlossom


Disclaimer: I do not own the Powerpuff Girls.

A Blossom/Brick oneshot, if only because I've done Boomer and Bubbles and Butch and Buttercup. I actually have future ideas for this, so if you guys think I should continue writing this, just say so in your reviews. I can turn it into a baby!fic, since I was going to do a Brick and Blossom one and a Boomer and Bubbles one to match with my almost-finished Butch and Buttercup one. Plus, this one would be interesting to continue.

But, until further notice, this is complete.

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><p>She lost her eyes on a warm, sunny day.<p>

The insects lulled in the gentle caresses of their day-lily abodes; the wind had sung through the tangled leaves of surrounding birch trees, joyfully humming.

And her gentle, ruby eyes were there with them, coating the surrounding tall-grass with a splattered multihue of crimson.

The wind didn't stop it's melody as she screamed, as Blossom tore at the fragile flesh of her cheeks. Her sisters came quickly, descending from the stilled air to cover her shoulders with their loving palms, repeating the obvious question of, 'Are you all-right, are you all-right?'

Blossom didn't answer, her small, beautiful fingers caressing the empty caverns where her eyes once rested with a sad, mournful fury, her mouth agape in a wailing scream.

I could've killed her then and there.

But I didn't.

Even Butch wasn't laughing; his mouth hung with a slight openning, stuck in the small airspace he occupied. Boomer had turned away, already rushing to escape the scene, tears and spit flowing from his body – he was our weakest, emotionally and physically, I didn't expect a different reaction.

The monster that had retrieved Blossom's eyes just moments before screeched gleefully from above, satisfied with it's slain foe, and descended into the earthy pit from which it had risen, undefeated and uninterested with the weak.

As the creature dissipated, Blossom's eyes bored into the fading form, silently howling from the tall-grass.

I remembered the moments of the day in crystal clear detail - every caress from the warm, July sun, every prick from the blooming thistles underfoot.

Every whine and whimper that broke the thick, humid air and clawed underneath my skin.

"Brick?" Blossom's soft, careful voice broke my thoughts; a rugged inhalation of air rushing into my lungs.

The moonlight's flare caressed the female's pale skin as she rose from the dishevelled covers of her bed, the sightless eyes that had been returned to their place by dumb surgeons blindly searching the room they could never again visualize.

They were only there so that Blossom wouldn't look like a freak, they'd said, so she'd still appear as the heroine she was inside; not just a blind, useless, and overpowered body.

I shifted upon my post on her bedroom's sloping windowsill, expressing a casual grunt to the sightless girl so that she could track my location. Blossom approached instantly, her slender legs cautiously moving over the invisible floor she no longer trusted as her own.

I felt her hand, soft and probing, gently touch my knee, and then grip onto it once the object was no longer recognized as a foreigner. Blossom's other hand, just as wary, slowly reached to touch the rough, bruised skin of my cheek. Her pink-rose lips moved into an 'o', a throaty exhale escaping from between the dual pearls.

"How did you know?" I asked, gently plucking the feather-light girl from her untrustworthy position on the floor, securing her on my lap. Blossom adjusted herself, her soft hair twirling in careful agitation, the tenseness escaping her form as she felt the encasement of something warm, something familiar and safe.

"I heard your feet touch down."

"Not so loud, your sisters'll hear."

"They'll just think I'm sleepwalking."

"You'd fall if you were, stupid. Don't forget to blink."

Blossom giggled lightly, the flicker of emotion betraying the mask of stoic perfection the girl usually held. Her blindness never affected the pride, the glory Blossom was so well known for. She still lead, her head raised high, a picture of idealism even with the handicap she'd been mutilated with.

Only I knew of the quiet, miserable mourning that went on behind closed doors.

Not even Blossom's sisters saw past the ever-present face of bravery and heroism. But I was different, closer; I knew. And so I held Blossom near me, even as the giggles bubbled from the pale rubies of her lips, quietly waiting for the tears that would inevitably stain the front of my shirt.

The action was casual, safe, but not done out of love, not even friendship; it was simply a quiet, mutual understanding. Our minds commended it; she and I, Blossom and me, were two halves of a powerful, single whole. And as her ripe, fruiting side began to rot, mine took it in strength to defend it, to protect it from further corruption.

Without Blossom, I would crumble as an unholy, festering fruit.

Yang could not exist without the counterbalance of ying.

"Let me touch your face." Blossom spoke quietly, fracturing the hanging silence. I shifted her unconsciously, putting the tender body into a more comfortable position on my lap. Her hand gripped mine – an assurance of the living world outside the cascading darkness of her own.

"Why?"

"So that I don't forget." The answer was plain, even austere, but I didn't shift as Blossom's genial, tame fingers delicately travelled up the valleys of my crimson-toned shirt. The conscientious sweep ended abruptly at the edge of my neck; the eyes of the crippled heroine drifted into a closed, peaceful daze.

She began slowly, carefully, her hands cupping the sides of my throat. The contact was foreign – a far throw from the chokeholds she had once dealt to the abused jugular. Blossom's meek appendages massaged the skin, the memory of the sensation building an image deep within the confines of her mind.

A soft gasp escaped her lips; I sniffed unwillingly, the rose-hips and lavender floating within my senses.

My chin came next, and Blossom tickled the skin with feather-like touches, silently tracing the firm, sculpted outline that built my frame. Her fingers glided over my lips, lingering there momentarily; I swept my tongue from the caverns of my mouth, flicking it at the tips. She smiled.

The meek touch came across my eyes, eyebrows, hairline, tracing like a talented painter, memorizing every curve, line and imperfection that covered my skin. But Blossom's stroke was distant, anxious; afraid to leave behind even the smallest contact she could make.

Afraid to forget anything that had once made up the joy that once exploded in vibrancy from the world of the living.

She finished neatly, curtly nodding her head once in the direction she knew as mine, folding her arms over the amethyst-toned nightgown that messily hung over her lap.

Saturninity hung in the air like a leaded bird.

The tears began shortly; past the pink unmoving orbs that held the titles of eyes, a thick, red liquid began to fall, splattering drop by drop onto my overused jeans. Blossom's normal auditory senses had failed in the same time frame as her sight; leaving sorrow to only show it's face in the name of violent haemoglobin.

The faint, anaemic frame that held the bulk of Blossom's mass seized, as the day's hardships, mercies and spineless pains began to unload themselves; throwing their terrible, distorted faces into the marred flesh of Blossom's extinguished psyche.

I tightened my grip around the sickly female, my teeth clenched. My genetics were torn; with each wasted, wavering night, her feelings resonated into me with an unearthly intensity. I felt it, I felt it all; the anguish, the mercy, the languid horror.

Her pain was mine.

Her hate was mine.

Her blindness was mine.

My breath shook, droplets coming off like sweat, but nonetheless I lifted a wavering hand to gently stroke Blossom's muddled head, the auburn locks parting for the caress of my fingers, "You're all-right, shh."

Blossom didn't answer, her head buried into the hardened flesh of my neck, the slippery feeling of crimson water coating the area in pink hues. Her hand grasped the hem of my shirt in a hardened desperation.

I kissed her then, as I always did. Lightly, dispassionately, routinely; Blossom plucked me back with the emotions in ideal reflection, her lips tasting of honeysuckle and a dusky forest's perfume.

She simply needed it; I needed it.

That hollow, frenzied feeling of a lover who whispered like a ghost at the windowsill, beckoning at a lost happiness that never really came true.

Blossom's hand wrapped around my neck, her lips pressing harder against my own; the liar's eyes drifted into a close as if she were a simple, tame human; bilateral in every way.

I lifted a marred hand, carefully pressing it against her beckoning cheek before either of us could go beyond our current standing point. I spoke quietly, my voice dull, nothing short of lifeless, "This isn't like you Blossom, stop."

"You need it just as much as me, you _know_ you do."

"This isn't like you." I repeated, but my hands lifted the feather-light figure off of my lap, bringing her gently onto the used mattress that held the tangle of ours limbs many a night already.

It smelled like her; her humble essence, her ever-flowing valleys of blood.

We were two halves of a whole, and we would sustain each other.

We would not love, we would not smile.

We would simply do business.

And at the same time, neither she nor I would purchase any other lover.

A silent pact had formed between us both long before; a boyfriend for her would be wary, he'd never fully understand the complexity, the reality that hid behind the fragile mask of Blossom that I tore from her memorizing fingers, night after night. A girlfriend for me would be bothersome, unneeded, and a waste - a distraction from the heavy task of regeneration I was burdened with.

As the sleepy morning sun rose to the heavens, the Blossom of legend returned, her unattached eyes blank since the day of their alteration, but face bright. Her proportioned, nude form held a power that never dared to dwell during the weak hours of night; Blossom's mask was fitted with a mime's perfection.

She was ever the strong, beautiful countess of Townsville; the grand, sightless symbol of the guard.

And I, quietly left to dress on the tangled sheets of the musty bed that we shared, was Brick. The thug, the toy, the duality that would keep his silent bargain without a master or reason to continue.

I would be Blossom's undying battery until the sun's cycle would reverse, until she began as the hero and I the antagonist.

I smiled fruitlessly as I pulled my smuggled shirt over my head, adjusting the haphazard clothing in a miscarried daze.

The day outside was filled with the bright, illuminating rays if the morning sun, individual specks of dust migrating lazily in the air. The grass was an animated emerald, vivid; swaying lightly with the tall-grass and multihued tulips of the gentle summer's season. Shrubs of a dozen sorts laughed with the dew-scented breeze, the air flow tickling their skin-thin, tigris branches.

The day was just as the one that had occurred not long before, just a year in the clock's reverse.

The one that had crippled, slain and ruined a wonder more glorious that Babylon.

Blossom was blind.

We didn't love.

We weren't friends.

She was my reflection.

And the sun agreed.


End file.
